Finally Dissipating the Rage
by Wyatt Webb
Prior
to about the age of nine and a half, I don't recall being a rage-filled kid. In
fact, I remember being quite sensitive and frightened for the most part, with a
general anxiety about living in the world. However, something occurred when I
was nine and a half that set up a pattern for future behavior.
I was in my boyhood home in Georgia with my older brother and my grandmother,
whom I loved dearly. My brother was teasing me, as siblings will do, but this
instance must have been significant in some way, because I remember it in
detail. I recall finding myself in overload emotionally, as if to say, "I can't
take another minute of this!" As if I'd been put on automatic pilot, I ran into
the kitchen and grabbed the biggest butcher knife we had. I went toward my
brother with it and told him that if he didn't leave me alone, I would -- and I
remember saying this -- cut his guts out. I remember him looking at me as if I'd
lost my mind. He immediately stopped teasing me and walked away. When my
grandmother told me to put the knife away, I threatened her as well. I was truly
in a trance-like state. That behavior did not go unnoticed, and I was later
punished -- and rightly so. In a civilized society, it's not okay to pull a knife
on your family.
That day, something clicked in my head and it's been with me ever since. My
rage-filled behavior had come up in total response to the shame, fear,
embarrassment, and pain of being teased by my brother. Rage seemed to stop those
unwanted emotions when they came from an external source, and I later discovered
that it also seemed to stop them when they came from inside as well. Whenever I
felt those "weak" feelings, rage allowed me to shut myself off emotionally, look
at the other person, and angrily think, Fuck you! Who needs you? Through
the emotion of rage, I could separate from others and become totally
unavailable.
As Brent questioned me about how this had manifested itself in my life, I
realized for the first time that I'd been associating vulnerability with
helplessness and hopelessness. Until that moment, I'd always believed that if I
was helpless and hopeless, I'd be rejected. Emotionally, that's what
vulnerability meant to me, even if intellectually I know it's the furthest thing
from the truth. Children, when they're vulnerable, are sometimes helpless; we
grown-ups are not -- we've proven that simply by growing up. I'd just never known
how to be vulnerable and a grown-up at the same time before.
As a little boy, pulling that knife had served as a temporary solution. But
using rage as a weapon as an adult became a cell in my emotional prison.
Whenever I felt threatened, the anger would leave me standing there, trapped
with a figurative knife in my hand. Rage kept me safe to some degree, because it
prevented me from feeling shame, and it pushed people away when I perceived them
as being dangerous. However, it also kept me from being close to people whom I
wanted to love. I was desperately afraid that when I really cared for someone,
it might translate into pain and rejection. Being caught between these two
opposite extremes -- rage at the one end, pain and rejection at the other --
resulted in polarization. Crazy? Yes. Logical? Absolutely.
Sitting there in Brent Baum's office (Brent is a good friend, a trauma
specialist and gifted therapist), I realized that the place I was looking for
was the midpoint between those two poles. I didn't have a clear map, but I
became committed to finding such a place, because I will not spend the rest of
my time on this planet living in this way.
As Brent, Carin (my wife), and I continued our session, I also began talking
about my perception of what was expected of me in our marriage. For as long as I
can remember, I've had the notion that my job was to be strong, have answers,
and be there for others, especially for any woman with whom I was in a
relationship. I truly wanted to be completely open and intimate with Carin, yet
such vulnerability equaled hopelessness, helplessness, and powerlessness in my
mind. As I explored these feelings, I found myself feeling very small
internally, and for maybe the fourth or fifth time in my life, I was able to go
into a depth of sadness and pain that I've kept mostly at bay for my entire
existence.
I began to talk about our dog, Toby, whose cancer has recurred. I've truly
grown to love this dog, who comes up to our bed in the morning and lays his
muzzle on my hand. In a small voice, I said, "I don't get to grieve; I don't get
to feel disappointed; I don't get to feel the pain of the potential loss of a
great friend like Toby, because I believe that I have to be there for Carin."
This was a deep expression of love, but it came from the place of being a
helpless young boy, not an empowered grown man. It turns out that it was also
just another story I'd made up -- it wasn't what Carin expected at all.
I came to realize that I was still operating with the coping skills of a
nine-and-a-half-year-old child who'd been afraid to deal with this particular
source of fear and self-doubt. What really amazes me is that if I'd seen this
in a client, my intellectual side would have been able to work with that person
and offer plenty of opportunities. Somehow, I hadn't been able to do that for
myself. I remember an old saying I heard years ago, and I guess it must be true:
"A physician who treats himself has a fool for a patient." Just because I've
been able to work therapeutically with others doesn't mean that I didn't remain
blind to some of my own unresolved stuff.
By the time we concluded the session, I was able to release more pain than I
ever would have believed was there. Most important, I'd had a particularly
enlightening breakthrough about an experience that had occurred a year or so
before. At that time, I nearly destroyed my marriage -- I'm fortunate that it's
still intact.
My wife had asked me a question about a relationship I'd had prior to meeting
her, and I'd lied about it. I continued to lie about it, because deep down
inside, I believed that if I told her the truth, she would leave me. My wife has
proven to me repeatedly how she feels about me, but my misperceptions just
wouldn't let me believe that she valued me enough to accept what I'd done. She
could have come up to me every day and told me how much she valued me, cooked me
every special meal I ever wanted, made love to me 18 times a day, and sent me
plaques for my wall, and it still wouldn't have changed my beliefs. How I felt
about myself caused me to behave in ways that caused my wife to doubt herself.
Carin's intuition is extremely well honed, and my refusal to tell her the
truth created a scenario that made her feel crazy. You see, Carin was aware of
this other person and had an intuitive sense that something had occurred between
us, but I wouldn't own up to it. Carin didn't care what I'd done prior to
meeting her, but the fact that I didn't seem to trust her enough to tell her the
truth was deeply painful for her. I didn't consciously mean to hurt her, but I
subconsciously sure as hell did, due to my own belief system about whether or
not anyone would value me enough to stay with me. Once again my history, which
had nothing to do with my wife, had gotten in the way of a relationship that I
valued and treasured beyond words. In spite of my conscious valuing of that, I
damn near trashed it.
One of the things that was very clear throughout this turbulent time was how
my anger came into play. Every time Carin questioned me, I became indignant,
which was in direct proportion to my being afraid that at any given moment she
might find out that I'd lied. It was the same old pattern: feel vulnerable, get
scared, get embarrassed, get angry. Once again, the same old story that I'd made
up in my head was keeping me from dealing with the problem at hand.
Now, here's one of the most interesting things I learned from this whole
experience. In trying to avoid my worst-case scenario, I made it happen anyway.
I was sure that if I told Carin the truth, she'd leave me. I was afraid I'd
never be close to her -- but by lying to her and causing her to doubt her
intuition and her very sanity, I drove her away anyway. Hell, she was gone
emotionally, and our closeness was damaged by my lie. She knew better; I knew
better. The elephant was in the room -- I was unwilling to acknowledge just how
big it was, how bad it stank, and that it was blocking my view.
I've never gotten away with anything, and that certainly continues to be
true. Eventually, when the truth was revealed by someone else, it almost cost me
my marriage. The key word here is almost: Almost may be significant when it
comes to horseshoes and hand grenades, but it's not worth much in a marriage. I
came close to losing Carin, but I didn't. In fact, this whole experience
ultimately brought us the closeness I'd always hoped for.
Naturally I don't recommend any of this as a way to create closeness in a
marriage. The simplest thing would have been for me to confront my own demons
and fears without involving my wife and dragging her through my mud. I nearly
destroyed the thing I wanted most in order to come to that awareness, and I
offer this example in hopes of helping others avoid such pain.
So, did I learn something? Yes.
1. First of all, this won't be happening again, because what Carin and I have
gone through has brought us to new levels of intimacy -- none of which has been
very easy, by the way, and all of which was of my making. Nothing is worth going
through this again. I'd never risk losing Carin and what we have together.
2. Second, if I ever get to that spot of helplessness and hopelessness, I'm
going to start talking about it. And if anybody suggests something to me, I'm
not going to cut them off. I realize that's what I've done my whole life, and it
hasn't worked very well.
3. Finally, I now understand what caused me to set my boundaries with such a
vengeance. I wasn't just setting boundaries, I was absolutely drawing a line in
the sand and saying, If you come across this, somebody's going to end up being
hurt -- and it won't be me." People get that message, and they back off from
someone who says such things and appears a little bit crazy when you look in
their eyes. That's what a really scared person will do, and that's what I'd done
when I felt really helpless. I was using the coping skills of a terrified child,
and they didn't get me what I wanted. Fortunately, I now have a new awareness.
At the end of our session, both Carin and Brent told me how much lighter my
face looked and how unburdened I appeared to be. It certainly felt that way to
me. It was such a relief to have taken this crucial fourth step. I'd gathered
information, confronted some lifetime misperceptions, and finally walked through
the fear that had held me back for so long. In allowing myself to be vulnerable
to another human being, I'd discovered the sweetness of connection and the joy
that is every individual's birthright.
 This
article was excerpted from:
Five Steps for Overcoming Fear & Self-Doubt
by Wyatt Webb.
Reprinted with permission of the publisher, Hay House, Inc. ©2004. www.hayhouse.com
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About the Author
Wyatt
Webb survived 15 years in the music industry as an entertainer, touring the
country 30 weeks a year. Realizing he was practically killing himself due to
drug-and-alcohol addictions, Wyatt sought help, which eventually led him to quit
the entertainment industry. He began what is now a 20-year career as a
therapist. Today he's the founder and leader of the Equine Experience at Miraval Life in
Balance, one of the world's top resorts, which is
also located in Tucson.
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